


Our fleeting hour

by MaplePaizley



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anatole is a serious fuckboi, And it is absolutely not a one-sided problem, Depression, Marital Problems, Pierre and Hélène's marriage is the worst okay, The Ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:50:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley
Summary: “Is that Natalya Rostova?” Pierre asked.“Hmmm?” Hélène hummed distractedly.“Over there”, he gestured vaguely. “In the white dress. But I don’t see Marya…”Hélène looked up briefly. “I think you must be mistaken husband”, she smiled blandly. “Come, the Kutuzovs are by the staircase.”AU where Pierre attended the ball





	Our fleeting hour

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from writing These Empty Revels, and somehow the longest one-shot I've ever written happened
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! Kudos and comments are wonderful and I love them dearly!

“Announcing Countess Hélène Vasilyevna Kuragina Bezukhova” their footman said with an inflated sense of grandeur. Hélène pasted on her ‘greeting company’ smile; a charming grin that Pierre had long ago learned to despise, and looped her arm through his, all but dragging him to the top of the staircase. “And Count Pyotr Kirillovich Bezukhov.” Pierre sighed internally. He hated these events, hated the expectations and posturing and the sweltering heat and the stilted conversations. It did not help his mood any that he was with Hélène, who was a bonafide master of the passive aggressive maneuvering that was necessary to maintain a position in Russian society. He knew her well enough to pick up on the subtle little barbs she had already thrown his way this evening; arranging to have her name announced first and including her maiden name were relatively innocuous ways to flaunt convention just enough to convey her disdain for him. Being introduced as Pyotr was an irritant as well, but then again, it was more formal than Pierre, so whether Hélène had chosen it specifically to spite him or not was somewhat ambiguous. Were the decision left solely to him, he wouldn’t have attended at all but, as Hélène had pointed out, not making an appearance at a ball in his own home would have been the height of rudeness and would have made people talk, especially following the duel.

 

He did not love Hélène, or even particularly like her, but he didn’t disagree that maintaining the illusion that the two of them were a united front was passably important. He had no desire to weather the scandal that would arise if the extent of their marital problems became public knowledge, or withstand outside pressure to get a separation. There was also the possibility of things getting even further out of hand, and calls for the marriage to be annulled to consider. Pierre had no interest in fielding proposals from ambitious families with charming young girls who couldn’t be trusted. After all, he thought to himself wryly, the enemy you knew was better than one you didn’t. He and Hélène were functionally dysfunctional; after so many years of being married together they had both perfected the nimble dance of marital warfare. He made it a point to abstain from involving himself in her affairs and she, for the most part, extended the same courtesy to him. That didn’t mean that he was willing to suffer humiliation for the sake of appeasing her sense of independence, however. The duel had been unfortunate, seemingly disastrous in the moment, but easily explainable as a night of heightened emotions coupled with one too many vodkas. It had only corroded his relationship with Hélène further, but he supposed that milk that had already soured wasn’t salvageable regardless.

 

He shifted uncomfortably in his uniform, wishing he was wearing a suit instead. Hélène had informed him that he was expected to appear in costume, and his army uniform was the barest concession to the dress code that he felt he could make without looking like a fool. Hélène clearly suffered no such compunctions. A pair of metallic gossamer wings protruded from her back, and there were flecks of gold dusted in her hair and across her cheekbones. She looked unearthly and achingly beautiful. Pierre couldn’t help but feel breathless when he saw her, feeling the odd twinge of resentment mixed with remorse that he so often associated with her, and a deep sense of loss for the woman he had believed he had fallen in love with.

 

Hélène rolled her eyes impatiently as he realized that she’d been trying to speak to him, and rearranged their arms so that they were linked. She raised an eyebrow at him, and upon seeing his slight nod, began down the steps. She braced her hand on his chest and threw her head back in a musical laugh as if they had been sharing an intimate conversation, and he’d said something funny. It was oddly intoxicating, he mused, playing this charade with Hélène. It was like a window into what they could have been if she had been who he had thought she was.

 

“You don’t have to stay too long,” Hélène said under her breath, the infectious grin never slipping from her face. 

 

Pierre chuckled despite himself. “Is it that obvious I don’t want to be here?”

 

“Yes” she murmured. “You could try smiling.” Pierre forced a wan smile on to his face, which Hélène sighed despairingly at, turning her eyes forwards. “Better than nothing I suppose.”

 

Anatole met them at the bottom of the stairs, clapping Pierre on the back enthusiastically and passing Hélène a glass of champagne. “Pierre, old man, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you at one of these!”

 

“So your sister keeps reminding me”, Pierre remarked drily.

 

“Who could blame her?” Anatole said cheerfully. “You clean up nicely.” Pierre couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of his chest at that. The thought that Hélène had any interest in him physically was ludicrous to the extent that had anyone else suggested it, Pierre would have assumed they were mocking him. _Anatole_ cleaned up nicely; he looked like a prince from a fairytale. He was wearing a white uniform and tall boots, and in the dim lighting, his blonde hair looked as lustrous as the burnished gold of Hélène’s wings.

 

Anatole turned to Hélène and kissed her hand and cheek respectively. “And you, dear sister, are radiant as always”, he said in a courtly manner. Hélène gave him a warm smile that Pierre could tell was genuine, and returned his peck. How close the Kuragin siblings were had never made complete sense to Pierre. Their personalities were in almost total opposition; while Hélène could be waspish and demanding, meticulous about perceptions and appearances, Anatole was unfalteringly sunny and chronically relaxed, content to float through life drinking and bedding women. “Pierre, may I borrow my sister for a moment?”

 

Hélène tilted her head up at Pierre. A passerby might assume that she was concerned about abandoning him, but he knew that she was mentally calculating the potential for collateral damage if she left him unsupervised. “Will you be alright?” she asked carefully.

 

“Yes”, he snapped.

 

“Wonderful”, Hélène said blandly. Anatole offered her his arm, and she swept away, trailing her long skirts behind her.

 

\--

 

Anatole led her to a slightly more secluded corner of the ballroom although the entranceway was still plainly in sight. Hélène snorted at Anatole’s choice, chalking it up to a strategic decision rooted in his agitation about Natasha’s tardiness.

 

“Do you know when Natalie is due to arrive?” Anatole asked anxiously.

 

Hélène smirked. “Patience is a virtue dear brother.” At Anatole’s pout she relented. “She should be here soon, don’t worry.”

 

“And your thoughts?”

 

Hélène paused thoughtfully, sipping her drink delicately. “Exquisite. Although you can tell she’s a country girl, poor thing.”

 

“I knew _that_ already,” Anatole said impatiently. “She keeps rebuffing me.”

 

Hélène chuckled bemusedly. “Are you asking me for advice on how to go about seducing the Rostov girl?”

 

“Of course not”, Anatole spluttered indignantly.

 

“Because while I’m flattered”, Hélène continued sweetly, “you ought to know that she’s obsessed with Bolkonsky.”

 

Anatole reached for her champagne flute. Hélène relinquished it, allowing him to take a sip before grabbing it back. “She won’t remember him after tonight.”

 

Hélène raised one thin eyebrow. “Confident.”

 

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Anatole smirked. “You know, this is why I adore young girls. They’re so delightfully starry-eyed.”

 

“And what about Pierre?”

 

Anatole stared at her like she had gone mad. “What _about_ Pierre?”

 

Hélène shook her head. Trust Anatole to assume that no one would have objections to him seducing a well-known, _engaged_ heiress. “Do you really suppose he’ll quietly let you ruin his best friend’s betrothed in his home?”

 

“Well then you will have to keep him occupied”, Anatole replied archly.

 

Hélène crossed her arms challengingly. “Will I?”

 

Anatole shrugged. “You’ve been tolerating him for years, what’s one more night?” Hélène glared at him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist in a show of reconciliation. “Please Lena? Just this one favor, and I promise I won’t ask for anything again.”

 

“We both know that’s a lie”, Hélène grumbled, but without any heat behind it.

 

Anatole beamed at her, leaning forwards to kiss her cheek. “Probably.”

 

Hélène sighed, watching him weave his way through the crowd before turning and stalking off towards her husband.

 

\--

 

Pierre had made it his goal to get as aggressively intoxicated at this godforsaken party as possible. After the duel he had made a promise to himself to limit his bouts of drunkenness, but he felt like the situation merited something to make the time pass quicker. Hélène had him on such a tight, scripted leash that the possibility of getting out of hand was limited at best. He was a few drinks in already, and he barely noticed Hélène as she floated over to stand next to him until she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

 

“Countess Bezukhova!” one of their guests called, striding over towards them. “Your home is lovely, and I must congratulate you on your soiree. You’ve certainly become an accomplished hostess.”

 

“You’re too kind Anna Mikhaylovna”, Hélène demurred.

 

“And Pierre!” she grinned. “Finally out of your study!”

 

“Yes”, he said sheepishly. “I would hate to miss one of Hélène’s…um…evenings.”

 

“It’s so wonderful to see a young couple still so in love”, their guest continued shrewdly. “Despite the rumors one hears.”

 

Pierre chanced a glance at Hélène at that last. Her face was impassive, but he felt her grip tighten fractionally on his arm. “I afraid I couldn’t comment on rumors, dear Princess”, she said coolly. “I hold the company I keep to higher standards.”

 

“Like Fyodor Dolokhov”, Anna Mikhaylovna said drily.

 

“Of course”, Hélène responded calmly. Pierre shot her a confused look, but she continued on, nonplussed. “I should hardly be able to consider myself a patriot were I to turn away one of our military’s most distinguished captains.”

 

Their guest barked out a harsh chuckle. “From what I’ve heard, your husband ought to consider a career in the military.”

 

“He would”, Hélène said, dripping with fake sweetness, “but I’m afraid he’s far too immersed in his studies. Aren’t you, darling?”

 

“Yes”, Pierre laughed weakly. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much use unless the battles in question were Alexander the Great’s campaigns.”

 

Anna Mikhaylovna raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you’re too humble, Count Bezukhov.”

 

“Yes he is”, Hélène said briskly. “Now if you’ll excuse us Anna, we’ve really been neglecting the rest of our guests to an appalling degree.”

 

“Of course”, she replied sardonically. “Do give my best wishes to Monsieur Dolokhov for a speedy recovery.”

 

Hélène gave her one last, tight smile, turning on her heel and all but marching away, dragging Pierre with her. “Are you alright?” he murmured. Hélène’s face was cool and collected, but her shoulders and grip on his arm were both vise-tight.   


“Scheming, opportunistic little social climber”, Hélène muttered irritably under her breath. Pierre snorted despite himself. His wife had never had much of a head for irony. She huffed one last annoyed breath before smiling up at Pierre brightly. “Never better”, she chimed. Pierre cocked his head at her inquisitively and she sighed. “We’re going to be subjected to worse than her over the next few weeks, husband”, she reminded him tiredly. “You did well”, she added, almost as an afterthought.

 

He blinked at the rare compliment. “Thank you.”

 

“We should see to the rest of our guests”, Hélène said firmly. “Before any of the rest of them have the chance to speculate about our marriage.”

 

“Lead the way”, Pierre muttered dejectedly. This night only seemed to get grimmer as it wore on. He was following Hélène as she darted around their guests when a bright flash of white caught his eye, so different from the darker colors their guests tended to wear. He squinted, trying to follow it, but with so many moving colors it kept blurring in and out of his field of vision. “Is that Natalya Rostova?” He asked.

 

“Hmmm?” Hélène hummed distractedly.

 

“Over there”, he gestured vaguely. “In the white dress. But I don’t see Marya…”

 

Hélène looked up briefly. “I think you must be mistaken husband”, she smiled blandly. “Come, the Kutuzovs are by the staircase.”

 

\--

 

Natasha felt her nerves bubbling up into her throat as she entered the ballroom. Everything was so beautiful. The Bezukhov’s mansion was so much more glamorous than Marya’s squat little brownstone. The outside had been enough to take Natasha’s breath away; the house was giant and ornate, a gleaming white that managed to outshine the snow. But Hélène’s ballroom- Natasha couldn’t connect the fashionable, intimidating room to bumbling, awkward Pierre- almost made her heart stop. It was dimly lit; and the almost yellow light made the chandeliers look as if they had been pieced together out of diamonds. The red velvet drapings on the wall were similarly luxurious, making the room dark and swelteringly warm in a way that was dizzyingly pleasant after being outside in the cold snow.   
  
Natasha bit her lip nervously as she tried to decide what to do. She didn’t know anyone here. She thought that she had seen a glimpse of glittering green that might have been Hélène, but it disappeared in a second. She was debating trying to sneak out, chalking this night up to a failed experiment, when Anatole emerged from the crowd, beaming and resplendent in his white uniform.

 

Anatole clicked his heels together and bowed low, brushing a kiss against her knuckles that made her skin prickle. “Good evening Natalie”, he grinned, raising his blue eyes to meet hers.

 

She smiled back shyly. “Hello Anatole.”

 

“Would you do me the honor of a dance?”   
  
“Of course”, she said, trying to sum up a modicum of bravado. He pulled the hand he was still holding, drawing her up a little too close against his chest to be considered strictly appropriate. Natasha’s head spun with the scent of his cologne; something light, almost floral, so different from Andrey’s smell of leather and smoke.

 

“You’re the most enchanting creature I’ve ever met”, Anatole breathed into her ear, squeezing her hand. “I love you madly Natalie.”

 

She sighed. “Anatole…”

 

“Hush”, he said firmly. “Just say you’ll be mine, my darling, as I am yours.”

 

“Don’t say things like that”, Natasha began defensively, rebelling against the warmth flooding her body. “I am engaged to be married.”

 

“You leave a dying man without recourse,” Anatole groaned. “What am I to do with you Natalie?”

 

Natasha tried to draw on Marya’s stern, impassive tone, hating the way her voice trembled. “That isn’t my concern.”

 

Anatole chuckled low in his throat. “My mistress is cruel.”

 

“I am _not_ your mistress”, Natasha reminded him. She had been going for a commanding voice, but found it laced with childish petulance instead.

 

“Mon chére, why punish me so unfeelingly? Is it my fault you’re bewitching?”

 

Natasha felt his hands dip lower on her back, effectively trapping her between his arms and chest. She placed her palms on his chest to create distance, trying to ignore his beautiful smile, and the intoxicating feeling of being surrounded by him. “Anatole…please…” she murmured. “I don’t understand what to do…”

 

“Don’t worry”, he purred, reaching up to cup her face. “I’m here now…”

 

It was too much, too much all at once, and Natasha turned away from him. “Natalie!” He cried indignantly, reaching for her arm. She pulled it away from him, but he managed to grab her forearm roughly, spinning her to face him. “Please, Natalie, mon chére, my darling, I love you madly”, he rambled, speaking at a breakneck pace.

 

“You’re hurting me”, Natasha heard herself say distantly.

 

He sighed, drawing her against him again, sending her tumbling into his firm chest. “Natalie….”

 

“Please, Anatole”, she murmured, distressed. “I don’t understand…”   
  
Anything else she could have said was cut off as he crashed his lips down on hers, brutally passionate.

 

She squeaked in surprise, too shocked to stop him. Was she enjoying this? Anatole’s lips were soft and warm, his arms strong and sure, wrapped around her waist. But her head was bent at an odd angle, and his lips were pressed slightly too hard on hers, enough that she could feel the unpleasantly sharp edge of his teeth. She leaned up, changed her position and _oh_ that was so much better. There was nothing in the world except her and Anatole until his tongue darted out against her lips and she was truly lost.

 

\--

 

“Who is that with Anatole?”

 

Hélène looked back, hardly sparing them a glance. “Some young heiress, knowing him”, she replied drily.

 

“There’s something familiar about her”, Pierre protested, squinting.

 

“Don’t pay him any mind”, Hélène snapped, pulling on his arm.

 

“No…” Pierre murmured. “Is that… _Natalya Rostova_?”

 

Hélène crossed her arms challengingly. “Why would Natalya Rostova be here?”

 

Pierre narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously, before tipsily lumbering off to investigate, ignoring the hissed _Pierre_ that followed him.

 

\--

 

She broke apart from Anatole first, gasping for air, staring at him in horror and confusion. What had they just _done_? Oh god, Andrey…. but he wasn’t here, Anatole was, and he was handsome and splendid and kind. They had kissed and he had told her that he loved her. Surely she loved him too? He stepped towards her and she put up a hand to stop him, too overwhelmed to really process what to do. She jumped a little when she felt a warm hand take her own, and spun around to meet Pierre Bezukhov’s warm eyes.

 

“Natalya”, he said quietly. “Do you remember me?”   
  
“Peter Kirillovich”, she murmured. _Andrey’s friend_ , she remembered, feeling a thrill of fear.

 

“May I speak with you?”   


She nodded numbly. “Of course.”

 

“Natalie, is that really necessary?” Anatole interjected. “We’re just having a conversation old man, leave us be.”

 

“I must insist”, Pierre said firmly.

 

Anatole’s eyes narrowed. Despite his light blond hair and pale skin, so different from his sister’s warm, dusky complexion, Pierre could have sworn that he had never looked more like Hélène. “Natalie, darling”, he began smoothly. “Please, we’ll find a place to talk. There’s a beautiful balcony, you can see all the stars from there.”

 

He reached for her hand, blinking in disbelief as Natasha pulled it away. “No”, she said quietly, turning to Pierre. “I think I’d like a chance to sit down.”

 

“Mon chére”, Anatole murmured, “I beg of you, just listen to me. There’s no one here but us, my love.”

 

“What’s going on?” Hélène cut in coolly, gliding over to where the three of them were standing in a rather ungainly huddle.

 

“Your husband is being incredibly rude”, Anatole said haughtily.

 

“And your brother is trying to seduce an engaged woman.” Natasha’s cheeks flared bright red at that.

 

“Oh for God’s sake”, Hélène muttered. She gave them both a tight smile that was clearly primarily for Natasha’s benefit. “I’m sure that the two of you are capable enough adults to sort this _somewhere else_.” She shook her head in irritation, turning away, gesturing for Pierre to follow her. “Come _on_ husband, we have guests to see to.”

 

“You planned this, didn’t you?” Pierre growled at her warily.

 

“I don’t know what you mean”, Hélène said icily.  

 

“Well I’m not leaving”, Pierre snarled back. “I don’t trust you _or_ Anatole with this girl.”

 

“Keep your voice down”, Hélène hissed. “You’re making a scene.”

 

“Good” Pierre bellowed, making some of their guests turn to look at the fight brewing. “God knows it’s about time everyone learned what a manipulative _witch_ you are.”

 

“You’re drunk, Pierre” Hélène said, in a tone of forced calm. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

 

“I should leave”, Natasha whispered, edging away from them. “Coming here was a mistake, I’m sorry.”

 

“My apologies for my husband, darling”, Hélène said silkily, turning towards Natasha. “He isn’t always this belligerent, I can’t say what’s come over him.”

 

“No…Natalya…Natasha…”, Pierre began, stumbling towards her. “Please, I’m sorry, just listen to me…”

 

Natasha recoiled away from him, inadvertently bumping into Anatole. “Allow me to escort you out, Countess Rostova”, Anatole said courteously. “I am truly sorry you’ve had to see this.”

 

“You’re very kind, but no”, Natasha said firmly, looking down at Pierre with a mixture of horror and despair. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

 

With that, she strode through the doors into the cold winter’s night, resolved to write Andrey as soon as she got home, leaving the Kuragins, and the glamour that they had promised, as a fleetingly pleasant, but unsustainable daydream.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell with me about Great Comet/ BBC War and Peace on my tumblr, penguinobserver!


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